The World Beyond The Stage
by J u s t . E s c a p e
Summary: Let's take Constantine, an unconventional Exorcist and his unusual allies, put them in London to flush evil spirits out of wherever, and let them bump into an aspiring stage actress who's running for her life. What do you get? A headache if you're John.
1. Prologue

**The World Beyond The Stage**

**Rated T: **For violence, strong language, adult situations, drug use, brutal gore and dark magic (yes, I'm bringing in the good stuff).

**Summary: **She could've had everything she could've ever dreamt of. She could've kept going, made it big maybe. Fame, fortune, rich friends, maybe hold an Oscar right in her hands at some point. But what started out as a normal night of auditioning, turned into a blazing flame of horrific Hell. Now it's up to John Constantine, an unconventional paranormal investigator and his not-so-normal friends, to protect an aspiring British stage actress and figure out why Hell is after her soul - whilst protecting his own. Because when you dare to venture into property of Hell, you're quite literally playing with fire. Partly John/OC. Prequel. Movie-based.

* * *

**Prologue**

Constantine - a lean man in a long, shabby black coat, stub of a cigarette between nicotine-yellowed fingers - got out and signaled for Chas to wait. Chas was getting out too: A young man of twenty in casual retro-cabby regalia, with a very non-retro artifact in his hands: A book about Martinist symbology, written in French. Getting the signal to wait from Constantine, Chas nodded and sighed, leaning against the cab and chewing his licorice.

Constantine tried to draw on the cigarette, saw it had gone out, dropped it into the gutter and ground it out with his shoe. He began walking down the long desolate backstreet toward the Club, patting his coat pocket for another cigarette. He lit a Lucky Strike with his ornate lighter figured with spiritual symbology.

Inside, the Bouncer held up a card. With no more than a glance of his sharp, dark eyes, Constantine revealed the image on the back: A duck on a cloud. The Bouncer unhooked the velvet rope, letting him pass through.

He walked past every Half-Breed Demon, Vampire and whatever Occultist mingled on the dance floor with barely a glance. The exercise was sharpening that burning pain in his lungs - pain that never completely went away. He knew that the craving for cigarettes and the pain went together: One more in an endless parade of ironies in his life. Hell, was there _any_ point in following Dr. Archer's directions?

_All that color in the smog_, he thought, _funny how poison can be so pretty. Reminds me of a girl I knew when I was in the band…what was her name?_

The prelude to a distant memory was interrupted abruptly when he heard a couple of familiar voices shouting his name and beckoning to him in the crowd.

_Shit_, he thought, _I forgot it was Poker night. Lucky I managed to show up at least_.

His original intention for coming here had been to see Midnite. The Witchdoctor had a few things he wanted to sort out with him; something about an artifact that turned out to be a phony of the actual thing - but he was early. One game couldn't possibly hurt, and Midnite's peevish complaints could wait…

Rhona stared intently at the cards she'd been dealt, drumming her free fingers on the table surface whilst licking her dry lips. A good hand: Two jacks, a club of a ten, a spade of a nine and an ace. At her right, John gave her a silent nod, indicating that she had her cocky brother, Sean, right where she wanted him. Nigel, shaken and aching for a drag, was contemplating on surrendering to a fold, but he sat tight despite himself.

Twirling her wavy blond locks between her fingers and biting her lip, Rhona observed her brother. He had that arrogant smirk on his round face, those careful eyes and that goatee that he looked almost too young to grow - so full of himself…and she had him.

He'd been bluffing her throughout the game. The whole time he'd taunted her, amusing himself with the straight up fact that his 'clever' sister had never in her whole life of twenty seven years played Poker. And he felt quite confident, with his spade of a two, spade of a ten, and his three threes, a combo of spades, clubs and a diamond, that he would win.

That smirk was bound to be ripped off from him eventually. When Rhona put the cards on the table, it was clear without a doubt that this game was hers. Nigel tossed his hand down with gladness - he just wanted to smoke anyhow - but Sean _threw_ his down, clutching his head and groaning, _No! No! No!_

"Don't be a sore loser, Sean." Rhona smirked.

John, standing against one of the columns with his arms crossed and the cigarette held tight between his fingers, gave a sarcastic mirth.

"Fuck off, John." Sean frowned.

"Let's see," John sat the cigarette on the shelf that lined the wall behind him, "you've been playing this game for how long now, four years? And this is her first. She beat your ass the first round at your own game." he shrugged and smirked proudly.

"Yea, talk about a lucky night." Sean said, knitting his brows at his grinning sister. "Or it would be sheer luck if you weren't standing over her shoulder giving her those little _hints_." He aimed his stare back upon John.

"Come on," Rhona said, "you're just mad because you got beat." She stood from the table, casting her shadow over her brother's shaved head. "Face it Sean, I'm untouchable…and I don't mean just Poker."

"Right." her brother scowled. "Well, I may beat you at your own game one day."

"Maybe." she shrugged. "I wouldn't get my hopes too high though." She left him with a pat on the head as she made way for the bar.

Sean caught a final glance of John's expression as he began trailing off from the Poker table.

"Don't smirk too much, Constantine. You wouldn't be smiling if you were in my shoes."

John only shook his head at him …

"Two jacks, a ten, a nine and an ace." Constantine mouthed arrogantly. Sean felt like punching him out - but that wasn't likely to be accomplishable.

Now there was a great deal of hopeless skanks and street freaks in the Club tonight. It was crowded with the clamor of clinging glasses, wheezing laughter, shouts, pleads, demands, coming from whatever beast mingled.

Rhona was already at the bar ordering a strawberry liqueur shot in a cold glass. The bartender - whose arms were long, demonic and talon-like - was pouring the fiasco and mixing it up for her when Constantine rounded a stool and ordered a shot for himself - Vodka, a personal favorite.

Rhona glanced John's way, readying herself to ask him what was on that mind - she always knew when something was on his mind - but before the chance was taken, a short figure, stout and darkly dressed parked himself beside her with his elbow leant on the bar.

"Hello pretty lady, the name's _Status Quo_." he uttered, his voice gruff and laced with the most annoying Los Angeles accent one could imagine. Rhona groaned and rolled her blue eyes at him. "I was thinking that you and me could get on the dance floor and bust some moves."

_How old is this guy, forty five? _she thought, her lips biting the rim of the glass and her eyes never leaving the sight of him.

Constantine was hardly shaken by this. He was waiting patiently for Rhona to give the poor bastard with his oversized sombrero and that cape that read 'stupid' a well-rounded piece of her mind.

"A hint of advice," she began, "if you're trying to achieve the mysterious bad boy aura in that clever suit up you're in, don't be so quick to automatically approach some random blond and hit on her. If you want attention, you have to draw the girls in, not drive them away with your cheap pick up lines." She flipped her hair away from her face with a sharp shift of the head, took a drink of her liqueur and approved herself to feel quite satisfied.

The fool seemed to be empty of a substantial reply - one that might have stepped on her toes a bit - so he walked off casually, fading rather well into the crowd. Constantine said,

"I wonder who let that moron pass through. Can't imagine a bohemian like that knowing anything about the cards."

"Who cares?" Rhona sneered. "I just want these idiotic so-called desirables to mark me off their list for good…Besides, he's probably got a membership here like a few others I would know."

It might have been an enjoyable drink between the two of them - more than likely silent with John - but still enjoyable. But Status Quo wasn't ready to call it quits after all. He planted himself on the stool opposite John, and beckoned to the bartender.

"Get me scotch on the rocks and put it in a dirty glass." he ordered.

John peered at him from the corner of his eye, arching his brow slightly. The only thing he noted about this 'Status Quo' was that he was an idiot seeking attention from a girl who wouldn't give him the time of day.

Then came the whispers. Both Constantine and Henderson reckoned the vocals to be coming from the fresh group of rookie occultists that had just taken their seat opposite the girl.

"Hey," one of the young men said, "that's Status Quo!"

"Where?" asked another.

"Right there, man. Don't you see him? He's like a legend in exorcism."

"Wow. I can't believe we're sitting at the same bar as Status Quo."

Rhona covered her mouth. She wanted to burst into laughter something awful, but she settled for a playful smile instead. It all sounded so recited, those fake expressions on the young men's faces, Status Quo drooping over the counter, forcing himself to drink something he'd never drank apparently; all this just to prove a point.

"Status Quo, huh?" Constantine spoke up and Rhona eyed him inauspiciously - he ignored her altogether as he carried on. "How come I've never heard of him? I've been around this block more times than many… I've never heard of a Status Quo." He glanced towards the dark haired fellow seated beside him, his now-pale face hiding beneath the sombrero. "You from out of town?"

"Uh," Quo stammered, "yea. Yea, I'm from outta' town."

"Where you from? I'll buy you a drink." Constantine suggested. Quo seemed to take him seriously enough, but Rhona knew better - she also noticed the occultist rookies leaving the table with malicious grins.

"I'm uh- I'm from Drysdale." Quo stated.

"_Drysdale_? Drysdale California?"

"No uh- it's a little town in Georgia - New York! Uh, Georgia New York!" Quo grabbed the half-pint glass, tilting it so that the harsh substance could run down his throat.

"Georgia, New York…" John commented, "To think I've lived in the U.S. my entire life, and I've never heard of a Drysdale, Georgia, New York. That's some funny shit." It was a flippant remark.

Status Quo stirred in his seat, spun his head over towards the sight of the lean, dark haired man beside him. _Such ego_, he thought,_ such vanity. Maybe I ought to beat him back down to size. _The whole idea of pounding this man into the floorboards was feeling, to Quo, quite plausible.

"I didn't come here to listen to wisecracks." Quo scowled. "I came here for a freaking drink, that's all."

"Or was it to harass my friend?" Constantine demanded, keeping his voice monotone.

"Wh- what?" Quo asked him, as if he were hard at hearing.

"I said, you came here to harass my friend. You know, the lady seated next to me." John pointed his thumb towards Rhona.

"Hey dude, what the hell is your problem, huh?"

"You." Constantine snarled. "You're my fucked up problem, you ugly prick."

"That a threat?"

"Could be."

"John for God sakes!" Rhona pleaded. "It's not worth it!"

"Stay out of it, you harlot!" Quo shouted. Constantine's fist sent him flying to the floor - the group of mingling Half-Breeds dwelling behind them cleared a path for the hard landing.

"Gee," Rhona mused bitterly, "_I_ would've hit him harder than that."

Constantine stood, straightening the collar of his coat and tossing some change on the table before striding over the poor fool curled and busted on the floor. Everyone, including Sean and Nigel, watched him pace away and into Midnite's office. The silence was awkward for a while, but after seeing that Status Quo was all well and fine, everyone went back to their drinking and laughing.

"Maybe you'd better go home before you get hurt." Rhona suggested to the fool as he bent over to pick up his fallen sombrero.

†††

The ramble in Midnite's office was hardly anything to suppress the eagerness in John to get home. It was all about that damned little golden Buddha Doll - a plump sculpture with its legs crossed and its chest bare, those long dangling earlobes, a stupid smile drawn on its face with slanted eyes. Midnite was holding it up to the light, being about as damned whiny as he could be - in John's opinion of course.

"You told me you bought it out of Cairo." the Witchdoctor said, bringing it back down to the table. "From a Kinto Dumadoo?"

"Yea." John said, coughing slightly. "Gave him the check you wrote in full. A good five grand."

"I know what I paid the bastard. The thing that angers me most is _your_ lack of good judgment."

"Don't pull this shit on me now, Paps'. I'm not your damned safe keeper."

"Yes. I noticed."

"What's so great about the damn thing anyhow? Looks about as useful as something you'd buy out of the dollar stores."

"It is valuable to me for personal reasons."

"Right." Constantine scoffed, lighting another Lucky Strike.

The conversation didn't get anywhere in particular. Midnite was losing his patience and John was getting bored, going through three cigarettes whilst sitting there. To Constantine's relief, their meeting was cut off and the Exorcist trailed out of the office meeting his friends at the bar and leaving from there.

_What's with Midnite and his stupid artifacts_? he thought.

Outside, Constantine, Sean, Nigel and Rhona leant themselves against the front wall of the Club building watching the scene and feeling that cool November air wisp through their nostrils and fill them with uncanny chill. Chas was cussing to himself about the time he wasted waiting around on Constantine and when he glimpsed them all gathered around outside, he approached.

"John! Yo, John!" he called.

"Here." Constantine mouthed sarcastically. Nigel cackled like the dope head he was.

"I've been waiting around for hours! You know what time it is?"

Constantine flipped his wrist over, sticking the cigarette between his lips and pulling his sleeves up just enough so that he could see where the hands were pointing on his ORIS wristwatch.

"Five till nine." he told the youth.

Chas halted, shaking his head and looking about as disarrayed as ever.

"You're selfish, John. You're a selfish bastard. You take advantage of my patience."

"Patience? Then what the hell are you all worked up about if you proclaim yourself so patient?"

"Come on, Chas." Nigel smirked. "We were playin' Poker."

"Great. Playing Poker…" Chas threw his arms up, almost starting to pace the street, "Thanks for telling me, Nigel. Thanks for telling me what the great Exorcist was _really _doing…had I known this earlier, I would've told him to hike."

"You got a date or something?" Constantine asked.

"Yea, my mother…who's probably fucking losing it right now."

"Aren't you a little old for mommy to keep tabs on ya?" Sean asked, teasing him.

"Come on guys," Rhona frowned, "lay off him. And quit giving him such a hard time, John; you _are_ selfish."

"Hey, didn't I punch that moron out for ya?...I don't know what I'm wasting my time with all you college kids for." John said. "I ought to be around people my own age."

In that moment, his cell began buzzing in his back pocket. He pulled it out, flipped it open, noticing the name on the screen, and pressed it to his right ear.

"Here's someone now."

It was Hennessy, Father Hennessy of the Catholic Ministry. He was anxious over the cell, and something in him sounded almost excitable.

"_Constantine_," he said, "_are you still up for a gig_?"

**To Be Continued.**

* * *

**A/N: **Some of you may recognize a small few of my original characters from Tourniquet throughout this story. Some verses and scenarios are inspired by John Shirley's Graphic Novels and a few other Hellblazer related things too. And as a disclaimer _Constantine_, _Hellblazer_ and the 'loveable' John Constantine isn't mine.


	2. Not A Holiday

**Not A Holiday**

John Constantine was about to push through the doors of the little pub nestled between the liquor store and the pharmacy, just across the street from the _Bowl, Bowl, Bowl_, when its doors burst open and two compact, short-skirted girls came bouncing out, their laughter tumbling together. Constantine smiled coolly at the little redhead with the round face and said,

"What's so funny? I could use a laugh."

The girl's gaze slid past him as if he were a ghost, her expression unchanging, the stream of giggling unceasing. The two girls flounced off down into the L.A. street way, dodging a bus with arm in arm, helping each other walk and laughing at their own drunkenness.

Slipping through the door before it closed, Constantine felt a bit down with himself. When was the last time he'd had a relationship that lasted more than a week (excluding those random one-night-stands, of course). Then the impact hit him from behind. Turning around with that classic scowl of his, he could see it was Chas - the boy must've lost his sense of direction when the two distractions passed them by.

Chas smiled like a half-witted idiot and John shook his head at him.

"Try to look where you're walking." Constantine grumbled.

It still felt good to be here anyway, even on business terms. He stared contentedly at the teeming pub; at the dark, crowded wooden booths, the slanting floorboards, signs extolling ales and good food, banners hanging loosely from the ceiling displaying football and baseball teams. What a place.

There was Hennessy in the crowd - a stocky, middle-aged man with broken veins on his head and a priest's collar - sitting still and clutching a tall glass of beer. He looked sweaty too, like he'd been working out in the heat all day. He had about three other glasses around the table - all empty - poor old Hennessy.

Constantine and his apprentice, who followed him around like a wandering dog, slipped past a tall, weeping drunk in a football tee-shirt and a female in a black pinafore and heavy eye shadow. The two of them squeezed into the wooden booth across from Hennessy.

"You're a little late." Hennessy remarked, setting down his glass and wiping his lips. His mouth was drooping open like a panting dog.

"We got held up." Constantine said. "Traffic was hell."

"Yea, pretty tight." Chas added in agreement. Hennessy noted Chas and nodded at the young man,

"Hello Chas, how are you?"

"I'm good."

"How bout' yourself?" Constantine asked with nonchalant ego, lighting a fresh cigarette as he spoke. Hennessy still had his collar, John had observed. _So the Church hasn't given him his walking papers yet, _he thought.

"I … I'm going to rehab, John, in a month or two. They're giving me another chance. Listen, I found you some work over in the U.K."

Constantine just stared at him silently for a moment, tilting his head back and letting the smoke ease its smog around the booth. Chas sat anxious and waiting with his brows raised in curiosity, his chocolate eyes wavering back and forth upon both men.

"The U.K., huh?" At last John had a comment on the matter.

"Yes." Hennessy said, wiping sweat from his nose. "There's been a string of hauntings lapsing out around various sites in London. I've had fifty emails from about three Catholic Ministries speaking on behalf of frightened homeowners and hotels, all desperate and looking for help. Whatever it is, no one's getting lucky, John."

"Yea? So?"

"John, you're going to England." Hennessy just up and told him so.

"Since when did you become my personal advisor?"

"Since I needed your help…desperately." Hennessy said. "I'm not doing this solo. There's no way in _he_- in the world, I'm going over there without you. Come on, John. You know better than anyone I can't pull anything out of a house, much less a possessed victim without your assistance. And with all this unfolding, something's not right over there."

John was patient in answering, and Hennessy couldn't be more ready for him to say yes. Constantine leaned forward about as casual as a cat, the cigarette hugged between his fingers, and his eyes bearing into Father Hennessy's.

"So, what's in it for me?" he asked.

Chas observed them from his seat against the wall. He could see the change in Hennessy's expression - it was growing agitated - but John's profile retained its intimidating frown.

"For the sake of Christ John, for the sake of innocent people, help me out here. Please. I'm going to rehab in a few months."

"Before it was _a _month or _two_, not a _few_ months." Constantine said, leaning back again. "Alright, I'll go along." He dipped the cigarette into the ashtray. "Didn't have any intention of going out of my boundaries here, but if you're that desperate I'll do it."

"And that's a promise?"

"Have I ever let you down?"

"No, John."

"It's a promise then, but never a guarantee."

"Understood."

"Give me time to prepare. I need to ensure that Beeman can suit me up…maybe take along a few co-workers too."

†††

There was a stench outside, some horrid smell seeping out from a drain hole from the sewer. Constantine lit up quickly, wanting to drown it out. They were walking past the cab, and Chas was jogging every few steps, trying to keep up with John's strides - he was a fast walker despite the burn in his lungs and the coughing roused by it.

"England, huh?" Chas smirked, snatching his cap off and scratching his head before replacing it.

"What about it?"

"You're going." He wasn't so much questioning Constantine yet as he was stating the facts.

"You were sitting there, weren't you? Or was that just my imagination?"

"Yea, yea I was sitting there. I heard the whole thing." Despite John's rudeness, Chas was still excited by the whole idea. "So, you're taking along a few co-workers."

"Yep." John replied, uneager to go into the details - until Chas pulled it out of him.

"Who?"

"What?"

"The co-workers…who's going?"

"Oh," John exhaled, "probably, more than likely, Sean, Rhona and of course Hennessy."

Chas' expression fell slowly to an un-delighted frown.

"Well," the young man pressed, "what about me, John?"

"What about you?"

"I'm your apprentice, aren't I?"

"Yea."

"Then shouldn't I go along? I mean, this could be it…this could be the moment I finally get to prove my worth."

"Look kid," John scoffed with illness, "this is the real world, not some sentimental fairytale where the old Samurai Master teaches some rookie boy to triumph over his enemies."

"Come on, I gotta learn sometime don't I?"

"Eventually."

"Then why not let me come along?"

"No need for you to come along. There'll be plenty of cabs to catch in England…not to mention those double-decker buses…Huh, I've always wanted to ride one of those things."

"Don't do the bullshit thing, John. Please, spare me the reconcilable differences here. I wanna come along. I'm not a little boy trying to follow in his idol's footsteps. I just want to learn the tricks of the trade for my own benefit. I wanna be there when something big happens. I wanna go, John. Please man, come on."

Constantine glanced off, trying to hide the wry grin spilling on his face. That Chas was something else, as bad as John hated to admit it, he was so much like he was at that age, yet so very different. Very different.

"Talk it over with your mother. If she agrees, you go. Otherwise, don't nag me about it anymore, got that?"

Chas squeezed his lips tightly, balling his fist up happily and play-punching John's shoulder before beaming in excitement.

"Alright! Great!" he laughed. "I'll talk with her."

"Yea." John grumbled. "Now go home, I gotta catch some rest."

"Goodnight, John."

Constantine replied to him, but it was too muffled to make out. Didn't make any difference though, because Chas was about as happy as a rich kid on Christmas morning - and he was anything _but_ rich.

†††

The bowling hall was closed for the night, and Constantine had to use a backdoor just to get in - using a set of keys that every apartment resident was given. The door, squeaky and stiffly stubborn, came ajar and he forced his weight on the rusty hinges, bringing it open.

"Damn door." he muttered. "When is Beeman gonna get around to fixing this place?"

Walking through the unlit locker room, Constantine pulled up the sleeves of his black duster and the sleeves of his white dress shirt, revealing those tattoos, the sigils on his forearms. He checked his watch - 12:54 am - and continued to stride toward the backroom, the control room (or rather, Beeman's secret office).

Beeman knew he was coming up behind him, heard his feet clamping heavily against the iron of the flooring. It was quiet now, without the roaring typically made during the day by the rumbling pin machines.

"Ello' John." said the little man. He had short blond hair, stubble on his face, middle-aged, nervous and wearing glasses. He had a strong British accent.

Constantine halted, coughing a little and trying to keep it from becoming a fit of hacking, and rummaging through his coat pockets. He retrieved a small half-empty, crumpled up bag of cough drops. He popped one of the little shiny pieces of mandarin orange-flavored drops into his mouth and began sucking whilst fighting the small wheezes in his chest.

"That smoking of yours doesn't help with the bronchitis, John." Beeman said.

Ignoring his words - his friends had had no clue at that time why he was really coughing - John began to speak,

"I'm going to England."

"To England?" Beeman was very intrigued. Being from England, he wanted to venture into why _John_ was going. "What for, might I ask?"

"Hennessy's on call. The Catholic Ministries over there are reporting large numbers of manifestations. He wants me to go along for the ride, Hennessy does. He doesn't seem to think he can do it alone. And what better way to avoid rehab a little longer?"

"Poor old Hennessy." Beeman said, sentimentally. "His drinking habit has only worsened, hasn't it?"

"It's improved about as much as my smoking has." - Well, that certainly wasn't saying much. Asking John to quit smoking altogether was like asking a tree to move on its own. By this time, Beeman and countless others who scarcely cared the least bit about his lungs - obviously more than he - had given up.

"And you're going to go?"

"I need to." John said. "Could be something up - like the Balance being tipped off the scales."

"You think so?"

"Don't know. It's hard to tell right now. Might not be anything more than a bunch of occultists opening up gateways in the ghetto for laughs."

"When are you leaving?"

"Not sure. I'm waiting on Father Hennessy to get that in order. Look Beeman, I need you to suit me up."

"Oh no, no, no!" Beeman said. "You know the rules of the trade, John. You get me what I need and I get you yours."

"Come on, Bee," John said, "I ain't' got nothing on hand right now and no way of getting it. That trip to Cairo went entirely sour. The bastard who sold me Midnite's artifact gave me a fake. I've already had my damned ears burnt off by Paps' rambling."

"Sorry John, a deal's a deal." Beeman was willing to stand his ground, but Constantine had ways around that.

"Think about all of those innocent people over there…probably little children scared half out of their minds from some demonic presence. Tell you what, give me what I need now and I'll bring you back something nice and pretty from good ol' jolly England."

"I don't know, John." Beeman sighed, removing his glasses and rubbing his temples in agony. "It just doesn't sound promising. Especially that story you told me about Midnite's artifact."

"Hey, how long has it been since you last went to England yourself?"

"Oh I don't know, three years, maybe three and a half?"

"Exactly. Why not come along yourself then?"

"What good would that do?"

"A lot of good for me. You can supply me with the tools I need and make sure I pay you back."

"That's crazy, John." Beeman replied, almost humorously. "What about the bowling alley, then? Who's gonna take care of the bloomin' place?"

"I'd suggest Nigel, but he might get drunk and burn the place down."

"It's a bad idea altogether. I'm not doing it. And until you can pay me upfront in full, I can't lend you a thing. I'm sorry, but it's on the contract."

"Screw your fucking contract!" John stormed. "It's not worth shit!" John paused, noticing the tremble in Beeman's body. After seeing this, he rekindled his remorse and spoke more gently. "Why not be a good Bloke and cooperate?"

"Can't do it." Beeman argued.

"Shit!" John scorned. He turned around swiftly, his coat swaying about him in that same rush of persistent resentfulness, and stomped out, his shoes pounding against the floor almost violently. Beeman could faintly hear the cursing under John's breath. And the slam of the door made the little man jump in his chair.

John would never hurt Beeman physically. He wasn't that kind of person - even Beeman knew this well. But being a walking-anxiety-attack-waiting-to-happen was just his nature. He couldn't help it, really.

If one thing was for sure, Constantine had given his friend something dreadful to sleep on. Beeman simply couldn't stand for any of his friends to stay angry at him, especially if he weren't to see them for a while. Maybe he'd reconsider and come around by morning. And then again, maybe he wouldn't for his own good. John could talk about Nigel all he wanted to, but Constantine had his own reputation for lack of dependability, unless he was trying to save a life. Other than that, forget it ...

By morning, Constantine was up, only half-dressed with his belt un-tightened around his waist and his shirt hanging out un-tucked, and unbuttoned. He was standing over the small countertop in the little kitchenette - which looked about as tidy as a rat's nest - struggling to scramble himself some eggs before they stuck to the pan.

The door came swinging open, and John barely heeded to it. It was Beeman, coming to the table and slamming a briefcase on its surface. He had that half-witted grin on his face and those anxious eyes behind those black rimmed spectacles of his.

"What brings _you_ here?" John mouthed, scraping the eggs loosely into a porcelain plate. He finished the buttoning of his shirt, grabbed the plate and began trailing towards the table where he seated himself near a hot cup of steaming coffee.

"I thought you might know." Beeman said. "I had a change of heart, John."

"Figures." Constantine bit into his eggs, chewing them roughly. The sound of the fork scraping against the porcelain sent unruly chills to Beeman's spine. "You decided to come around, huh?"

"Well, I thought you might like to have a look at what I've got available here. I didn't bring any heavy artillery, as I figure the security will catch it at the port. But I've brought a few little things that will easily come in handy."

"And what if I do need heavy artillery?" John asked.

"I've already got that taken care of." Beeman said. "I'm going to mail something overseas, to a good friend of mine. I'll give you the address and you can pick it up from there."

"Coffee?" The gesture was John's way of saying 'thanks Bee, for coming through' without actually having to go through the trouble of twisting his tongue into an awkward knot.

"Don't mind if I do." Beeman smirked. Things played into Constantine's hands once again. Now he just had to see about who he wanted to invite along, and await Hennessy and Chas.

Chas...maybe the kid would just stay put so John wouldn't feel too responsible.

**To Be Continued.**


End file.
